Mon: Dawn opens her orange eyes as I walk the colourless rise to a stop where a bus will, hopefully, whisk me away. I leave muwinina Land / Hobart, and aim, once again, for Wurundjeri Woi Wurrung Land / Melbourne.

There’s a wonderful dose of extra confidence in returning to a once-visited city. A sense of fresh familiarity and competence in navigating public transport, recognising landmarks, and feeling a little less novice than those first times around. I head to the suburb of Fitzroy and set up camp at The Nunnery, a beautiful old building next door to schools of certain religious denominations. The building’s been repurposed into accommodation for travellers, mostly young. Perhaps this is also the first time away from home, I’m guessing this from the substantial mess they leave for the cleaners each morning, and many seem to be earning a buck as Uber drivers, as evidence by the collection of scooters huddled around the front doorway.. It’s $40 for a bunk bed and $140 for a single room; I choose the former and settle in on the bottom bed as a troll under the bridge might do. I very much feel like the old man of the manor in this place. But this is not a week for declining ability; it is to be my busiest week. With the MONA show complete, I feel as if I have crossed some psychological hill. The booking was the catalytic reason for the tour, and possibly the show with the most apprehension attached — it’s certainly one of the swankiest venues I’ve ever played. A sense of “phew” now settles, as it does similarly to any hair-raising, cliff-edge drive once the precipitous moments have passed, and a flat open road stretches out in front.

But not for long. The first show is Monday night; the event is Morbid Mondays, at The Old Bar, a handy 10-minute walk from my digs. A venue whose flooring is notorious for its stickiness, but I suspect the velcro-effect is from years of spilled drinks onto the once-upon-a-time carpet. Solution // Noise Pollution is the first act. Solo drumming with an accompanying film, sound included. An excellent use of tech, and a compelling performance. Kalamaya return, last seen at the Geelong show, and deliver a much more amped performance this evening. I really enjoyed hearing them level up with so much more assertion. I play third and deliver what I think is, even as I write this, possibly the best performance to date. It was just one of those shows where everything aimed for landed as hoped; there were no tech problems, the sound was great, the pub was full, and that reciprocal energy helps ratchet up the exchange.

The next day is admin and washing day. During the day I am contacted by Cher Tan, who was at the previous evening’s show, and asks if I am keen on playing another show on the Wednesday night? Yes, is my reply, of course. The details reveal themselves eventually. The venue will be Footscray Records, a small shop located two tram lines away from Fitzroy.

— — —

Wed: The record shop is delightfully cramped, and bursting with curiosities that I’d love to take home. My ability to buy, though, is limited by two main factors. The first is the weight limitation on my flight cases; I need to be extra considered on the weight of any purchase. The complications of me getting too excited and pushing the weight of my case over the allowed limit is an expensive complication I am motivated to avoid. The second is simply available cash. I have tried to be as attentive to minimising costs while travelling, using hard cash made from shows rather than using the credit card. An unforeseen learning from this trip has been the increasingly normal use of digital payments for tickets and merch purchases. I had anticipated more hard currency, but the reality has changed in the past few years, especially since Covid. I have needed to rapidly discover ways of receiving payments after the event; my main tool at the moment is a Wise account. But there’s no real clear and easy way, at least to me, of doing digital payments for merch at shows.

I am the only act. People huddle around the record bins, looking from whatever vantage point they can secure. It all feels close and cosy, and delightfully ludicrous. The shop’s plants are a little under-attended too, poorly, if the truth be told. So a couple of guys, with the appearance of grindcore fans, head off to a local pub to see if we can borrow a healthy specimen for the show. They return with arms full of foliage, and with leaves full of voltage.

— — —

Thu: When I’ve told people I’m going to play in Cowes, on Millowl / Philip Island, they seemed genuinely surprised, or bemused. It appears that it is not a place that features highly on anyone’s touring schedule. To fulfil this claim though, I must first get there. The island is seven hours, by public transport, south east of Melbourne. This intrepid exploration starts first on a tram to Flinders Station, then train to Pakenham. I follow Google Maps’ advice and walk the 15 minutes to the bus stop to Cowes, of which only the name is displayed, with no time. A bloke strolls up and waits for a different bus. I find out from him that it seems pretty uncertain that any bus will take me where I want to go from this stop. He leaves. I recheck Google and it now provides another location, 8 minutes by car, and leaving in 10 minutes. I scan Uber and think about trying to make a dash for the newly suggested departure spot. I am definitely feeling a sinking sense of impending disappointment. Then, like an ancient myth, salvation comes out of the fog, except the day was clear but overcast, a bus approaches. Perhaps the deity of the bus stop heard my cursing and looked kindly upon such a sad whelp, and whispered into existence this miracle. The bus driver was more taciturn; he told me no buses, from any stops, went to where I wanted to go, and that I needed to return to the station. I went to gather up my gear and walk at the briskest pace back to the station, when the driver offered his final, and informative, missive: “Are you going to get on?” Its destination is the station! The stationmaster took some moments to establish whether any more vehicles were running that day, but delivered the short answer of “yes”. Cinderella shall go to Cowes.

I wait 30 minutes for the first bus to Koo Wee Rup. From there I wait in the cold, for an hour, for the second coach to Cowes. Further adding evidence to my lucky streak, the driver lets me on for free, and delivers me into the dark, cold, and now foggy, night of the invisible town of Cowes. The venue is a five-minute walk, and I walk into the warmth of Bar 151.

Rustic is an apt description; a once-upon-a-time outdoor space is converted and covered, there’s a roaring fire to welcome all in. It’s a coastal village, population around 7k, and a combination of money from tourism, holiday homes from Melburnians, alongside a darker edge of the types who might seek to disappear from the mainstream. It’s a contrasting community. But the crowd in the bar are sweet! Interested, enthused, curious, and super-friendly. First act is JC; he plays a solo bass set, a freeform noise set via an Acca/Dacca filter, not reliant on too many pedals or heaps of effects. It was a beaut set of crackles and rumbles. I could have listened to so much more. RuinScapes are next, Sam on drums (the show organiser) and a guitarist. And I love acts like this, genuinely. There is a beautiful phenomenon that exists on the periphery of these kinds of music, where able-bodied individuals make spaces, in a non-patronising or deficit-focused way, for people with other abilities or who might need some additional support in certain areas of their lives. It’s a genuine approach that anyone can make music, it’s all valid, and sound making is an art form that can include everybody. MNNQNPNTS’D is third, delivering a squelchy, collaged soundworld that brings to mind many of my favourite musical weirdos. That’s a fine three-for-three I have to follow, and I feel really privileged to bring my show into this community.

The venue also needs a mention. On this single site, I am told there’s maybe up to 10 small businesses: the bar, a tattoo shop, a Philippine supermarket, a store of plants and crafts, and out the front, a coffee caravan. They are all locals, who seem to have self-organised their efforts into this one endeavour. A self-initiated marketplace in which each benefits the other. As opposed to other “marketplaces” in which landlords extract a rent for a space; stalls stand side by side, but they generally feel like a collection of producers, rather than a cohesive expression of community.

The next morning we swim in the sea before the sun comes up, have breakfast, and I leave, travelling back across land, aiming for tonight’s show at Trash Cult in Bendigo.

And what a record shop Trash Cult is! So much goodness all wrapped up into one place. It’s also a bar, and a venue. It’s run by Lorelle and Mike, warm, accommodating, and genuinely enthusiastic music nuts. A snug venue that packs a punch well above its weight. Tube Failure was the first of three acts, it included bar operator Mike, and two others. I’m told that seeing Mike play live is a rare and special thing. It is a cacophonous collage of sounds emitting from three middle-aged men huddled over three laptops – it makes me think of the Weird Sisters of Macbeth, but tonight it’s the Weird Misters. Wasp Dope follows and is a maximalist barrage of modular and other electronics; the subs were pushed to their limits for this. At times like an asphyxiating dub, any breathing space available was stuffed with sound and volume. And then there’s my turn. I’ll leave this video here, generously made by Megumie Alcala, capturing the evening in such cinematic fashion.

Sat: The last show in this block is in Castlemaine, an hour from Bendigo. And if I count back from playing MONA last Saturday, this will be the sixth show inclusive of Hobart. And quite some miles have been travelled in that time as well. It’s certainly been a week of maximum exertion. Oni Streetwear is the venue for the show, and it’s a mid-afternoon gig, starting around 4pm. Oni seems to be a small business, selling bespoke clothing, a screen printing setup out the back, a small gallery for exhibition purposes, and also hosts opportunities for young people to come in and experience creativity in other formats. I’m told the shop used to be the old toy store, it seems like a comfortable historical fit for today. Rex Maximus opens the event, playing an electronic set of arpeggiated patterns which mutate into a luscious field of drone, warm and enveloping. I wrap up the afternoon, blowing bubbles, jittering metal chopsticks, flipping cymbals and other techniques I’ve learned in the world of classical drumming. The beauty of afternoon shows is that we are home for tea and rest. Sunday is slow. Walks in the woods where we discuss tiny sundews, the exotic kangaroo, the existence of the pobblebonks, and living with fire. The day closes with an overnight bus trip to Adelaide.